


Heroes Need Not Question Their Actions

by Konstantinsen



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), RWBY
Genre: Camaraderie, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Reflection, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantinsen/pseuds/Konstantinsen
Summary: It is 1945 and war has destroyed much of the world they once knew. In the west, a once prominent family struggles to weather the storm of a vengeful army. In the east, two brothers-in-arms attempt to find newer purpose outside their Imperial destiny.
Kudos: 13





	1. April 28 and 29, 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (September 27, 2020) - I can't believe I wrote this.

_April 28, 1945_

Weiss Schnee adjusted her Volkssturm armband before shouldering the Karabiner issued to her by their battalion commandant.

She was barely seventeen when she 'voluntarily' heeded the call of duty. The Fatherland needed every able body in the defense against the advancing Red Army. But even before she could be considered an adult by anyone's standards, she already shared the sardonic views of the older members of her company. She mostly kept those thoughts to herself though.

Her older sister Winter shared the same view but also wisely remained tightlipped on the matter, instead using her sternness and prestige (or whatever little remained of their once prodigious family name) to keep up morale and enforce discipline within their ranks. On the other hand, her younger brother Whitley instead mindlessly parroted the 'patriotic' slogans barked over the radio. If anyone were to ask Weiss herself—as long as the battalion commandant was out of earshot—she would admit that the war was a lost cause and they were all being thrown into a desperate, if not futile, defense of Berlin.

Then again, she was a seventeen-year-old girl whose school had been bombed to pieces by the Allies at around the same time she was yanked out of her mansion—or what was left of it—to join the ranks of the Third Reich's glorious defenders.

The 'People's Storm,' it was called.

Indeed, they were a storm of mismatched 'fighters' willing to bury the enemy alive with their own corpses.

Weiss wiped the dirt from her eyes and focused on the broken streets in front of her. So far, she had managed to avoid any direct fighting—in part due to the influence of her sister and the fact that her squad leader had been paid by her mother to keep her out of harm's way—but, no matter how many times she denied it, it was inevitable that she would have to face the Red Army and their more organized, more experienced, more uncompromising troops.

She just hoped for whatever mercy the Russians could spare. Then again, after what her Fatherland had done to their Motherland, she doubted she would be given the light of day by any Soviet soldier she would be unfortunate enough to encounter. She shuddered to think of what they would actually do to her should they get their hands on her.

"Weiss," Winter said, resting her hand on her shoulder. Though a private in the Volkssturm like she was, she held the authority and poise of a lieutenant. "How are you faring?"

" _Gut, gut,_ " Weiss replied shakily. "This rifle is heavy."

Winter chuckled. Rarely did she chuckle. "At least you wouldn't be lifting the Panzerschreck."

Weiss allowed for a short laugh herself. "Lucky me, then."

The two sisters smiled and relished in the moment of levity before regarding the barren streets. They stood in a ditch dug behind a wall of sandbags and some ramshackle fortifications cobbled together from debris, furniture, and general garbage.

After a while, Weiss's smile vanished from her face and she whispered to her sister. "Winter, I'm scared."

"I know," Winter replied morosely. "Me too. But we must play our part. _Wir sind Volkssturmmannen._ We are the protectors of Berlin. And we will hold this line."

Weiss could only nod. She did not like that slogan. In fact, she did not like that she had to stomach such words and repeat them when asked by their seniors. How many times had that been invoked?

The Red Army broke the line at Seelow, shattering what little hope they had of holding back the tide. The Red Army again broke the line outside Berlin, tearing apart the city with their innumerable rockets. And earlier this morning, the Red Army had crossed the Moltke Bridge, pushing the line even further into the city center. Now that the Russians were only several blocs away, how long would this line hold?

"If you'll excuse me, I have to go see to the others," Winter said. "Take care, Weiss."

Weiss watched her sister go, leaving her alone in her pit. A seventeen-year-old militant tasked with watching the road. By herself because her comrades were either dead, dying, or busy manning some other post. Whatever squadron they formed was stretched to cover a wide area and what little camaraderie they formed in their short time together was strained by their lack of communication.

In essence, it was every man (or woman) for himself.

Weiss shook her head of these thoughts. She had to focus. With her Karabiner weighing down on her lithe arm, she wiped away a frightful tear so she could put on a strong face.

* * *

Private Dmitri Petrenko followed his comrades Private Yefrosin Chernov and Sergeant Viktor Reznov as they advanced down the streets of Berlin.

Slowly but surely, they claimed every inch of this wretched city. Building by building, room by room, 'one rat at a time' as Sergeant Reznov once put it. Yet, despite the damage done by their artillery and the holes blasted into the walls by their tanks, there was no one who would deny that Berlin itself was a beautiful metropolis.

Indeed, its multistory buildings stood pridefully with their impeccable masonry and fine metalwork while ruined cars of varying German make crowded the streets—cars that were of superior quality to the vehicles back in Stalingrad and Moscow. Even the individual homes they had to fight in bore furniture, décor, and art that were nothing out of the realm of the luxurious bourgeoisie.

Such wealth, such abundance, such decadence...

And yet these rich, exploitive, fascist Germans—a supposedly 'perfect' people who had everything one could hope for, who possessed the glorious future that the proletariat were working so hard to achieve—chose to invade Russia...and take away what little the workers of the Soviet Union had toiled for.

This fact in itself filled Dmitri with rage. The same rage that was shared by his comrades. But none more so than Sergeant Reznov and Commissar Markhov. Both men were among the oldest in their unit, a veteran fighting force within the vaunted Third Shock Army. Both men spoke of the horrors they had witnessed, the atrocities committed by these Nazis, the friends and loved ones they had lost... Both men were right to be furious and vengeful. Both were right to show no mercy to these cowering fascists. Both men were consumed by absolute hatred.

And both men were something Dmitri continuously strove not to become.

The grizzled private from east of the Volga was a patriot like many of his comrades but he would never allow himself to stoop as low as the Germans. Barring Commissar Markhov's raving speeches and Sergeant Reznov's declarations of vengeance, Private Petrenko could bring himself to do the same to the families of these people.

Deep in his mind, Dmitri would agree that Chernov was right. This was not war; this was murder. But he kept those thoughts to himself as they advanced in column down the streets of Berlin, shooting down those who dared to fight back and ignoring the fact that many of these Germans were not even proper soldiers to begin with.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_April 29, 1945_

Winter found Weiss crying inside a disabled halftrack.

The younger girl was cowering several streets away from the position her squadron was supposed to defend. Now undoubtedly lost to the Red Army.

"Weiss, Weiss," the older woman cooed, squeezing into the vehicle and wiping away the tears on her cheeks. "Hey, hey. It's okay. I'm here, I'm here."

"Winter, I...I...th-they..."

"Shhh, it's okay, it's okay." Winter took her sister in her arms and caressed her hair. "It's over. For now, it's over. You're here with me. You're safe."

"Th-they, they...I couldn't..."

"What matters is that you're still alive."

"I...I don't think they saw me...I r-r-ran as f-fast as I could."

"You were right to do that."

"B-but th-that's c-cowardice! I'm a...I'm a traitor," Weiss sobbed.

If Winter truly believed everything her superiors said, then Weiss was indeed a traitor for fleeing the battle. But then again, what did it matter at this point? Berlin was surrounded and it was only a matter of time before the Red Army would emerge victorious. Such defeatist talk was treasonous yet Winter mentally damned her leaders to Hell if it meant speaking the undeniable truth.

This was not the Germany she had grown up dreaming of. This was not the 'Thousand-year Reich' that was constantly promised to her years ago. This was not the supreme Aryan paradise she had been led to believe as a young, hopeful daughter of a prominent Party official.

"Come with me," Winter whispered. "We can get you back to my unit. We'll have you cared for."

"Th-they'll hang me!" she shrieked.

"No, they will not," the older woman declared. "I will not let that happen. You fought bravely for the Fatherland and you fought your way through the Red Army to rejoin us. You are a valiant soldier and not a traitor!"

"B-but I—"

"Shhh, now. We should go now."

With that, Winter helped Weiss out of the halftrack. Together, they meandered through the winding, barricaded streets towards Winter's squad.

* * *

Winter's squadron was one of the few Volkssturm units that had everything they needed. Or, at least, anything that was deemed necessary to a point.

They each wore proper uniforms, they each carried a rifle and a sidearm, and they even had a machine-gun mounted on a barricade. And they were all positioned around the rubble of one of the collapsed buildings. Bricks and mortar flooded half the road, making for a natural barrier that was later reinforced by sandbags and makeshift fortifications while the large crater in the middle of the street had been converted into a crude shelter.

It was here, under a tent flap held up by a wooden post, where Weiss found herself sitting amongst familiar faces, hoping that she would not be treated a traitor for fleeing from battle. Despite remaining largely silent, it was not long before someone starting asking. And one of the Volkssturm privates, a short-haired lady named Bree, began asking about Weiss's own squad.

Private Weiss Schnee bit her lip and looked away.

Private Bree immediately apologized. " _Es tut mir leid_ _! Ich weisse nicht._ "

" _Es geht, es geht,_ " Weiss stammered, her lip quivering and her hands trembling.

The other members of Winter's squadron were quick to offer support. Private Amin offered her his coat while Privates Zeki and Ederne prepared for her a cup of warm water and some biscuits. Corporal Ebi, the squad leader, came over and gave the visibly shaken Weiss Schnee another Karabiner.

" _Das tut mir leid, Volkssturmman_ Weiss," he said with as much sympathy as he could offer. "But there is little time for rest. I hope you can still pull through."

" _Dankesch_ _ö_ _n, Gruppenf_ _ü_ _hrer,_ " Weiss said shakily. "I...I will try my best."

Corporal Ebi gave her a reassuring smile. If anything, Winter's squadron was friendlier than her own, rest their souls.

Winter kneeled in front of her. "We'll make it through this."

"H-how?"

Her sister could only smile back, albeit it was a sad one. And the message was clear: best hope for mercy from the Russians.

"Where's Whitley?"

"I don't know."

" _Volkssturmman_ Whitley's unit was pulled back to assist the SS honor guard at the Reichstag," reported Private Bree.

The two sisters shared a grim look. Regardless of whatever they felt towards their younger brother, he was still family. And since their father's disappearance (either he successfully fled, was killed by the Red Army, or had been executed by the Gestapo; no one really knew) and their mother's confinement to one of the few remaining safe havens in Berlin's center, each other was all they had.

Rumble, rumble.

Thunder from above that clashed with the thunder of Soviet artillery.

Pitter, patter. Raindrops began to pelt their clothes. Better rain than bullets, they all thought.

Weiss embraced the rain. She looked up at the sky and silently prayed for the safety of her mother and her brother. In the back of her mind, the duty of protecting the Reichstag was more of a death wish than a privilege.

* * *

Dmitri stuck his hand out the window to catch some of the rain. In the light of the oil lamps, he wiped the dried blood off his palms and then the blood off his rifle. Such intense close quarters fighting had meant that he ended up tasting more blood than he needed to. In contrast to how was easy it was to scrub away the mess that littered these corridors, it was hard to forget the mortified faces of their many dead enemies.

Yet what disturbed him was that half of those who had faced them were not even in uniform. Rather, many of those who ran into their hail of bullets were the young, the old, and the weak. The so-called 'German People's Storm' mobilized by the fascists to stand in their way. He could even remember the terrified face of that one girl.

A young girl with flowing white hair.

Staring at him with wide, blue eyes.

Afraid. On the verge of tears. The sullied fascist armband sagging off her sleeve.

Dmitri had watched her quiver and shake. So afraid that she could not even hold the rifle steady in her hands before it clattered to the ground. The poor girl was terrified.

And rightfully so. He had killed her friends in front of her. Without mercy, he had sprayed them with every bullet in the drum magazine of his Shpagin, leaving a pile of bodies in his wake. He had been ordered to flank around the German position and he did so, bursting through a burning building with some of his comrades and emerging on the other side by himself. That was when he found the small group of young 'People's Storm' conscripts manning a barricade.

And he unquestioningly gunned them down.

Save for that white-haired girl who stood with her back against the brick wall, watching him do it.

Without a uniform, she was a civilian. Yet with a rifle, she was a combatant. As far as Dmitri knew, she was a fair target so long as she wielded a weapon against him. In contrast, he was a trained and experienced soldier. He killed only when they fought back, only when the enemy resisted with the intent to kill him. He was even revered as a so-called 'hero' for his 'bravery' and 'valor' from Stalingrad all the way to Seelow.

But he was still a man. And he still believed in rules. Rules that sometimes, his comrades often disregarded. Rules that even Sergeant Reznov spat on for the sake of vengeance. If there was one thing that would argue with his mentor, it was that Dmitri Petrenko was no murderer.

So when this young white-haired girl dropped her rifle, she had ceased to be a threat. Instead, she scurried away in tears. And Private Petrenko remained standing on the bodies of the dead, watching her form disappear into the ruins.

Now, several hours later, as he sat in a room atop of what was once a nice apartment, he pondered on his actions and whether or not it was deserving of his title as a 'hero.'

No.

Best not to dwell on such things when the battle was yet to be won. Rather, his mind lingered on what he was going to do once this war was over. He could go home...if it had been rebuilt. Or he could go to Moscow and find work. Or maybe he could follow his comrades and their other endeavors...like working in the coal mines or working on a collective farm or working in a factory or working somewhere where he would not have to shoot someone again.

Scribble, scribble.

He turned his head to regard his only companion in this derelict position they had to man. Private Yefrosin Chernov was writing in his diary again.

"Hey. Yefrosin, what are you writing about this time?"

Chernov stopped, startled, before relaxing when he saw it was only him. Goodness knows, Sergeant Reznov would have raved at him again for wasting his time on writing than on fighting. " _Nichego, tovarishch._ Just..reflecting."

Dmitri nodded. "... _Konechno._ What do you plan on doing after this is over?"

The other man appeared surprised. "I...do not know. I really do not know."

The so-called 'hero of Stalingrad' nodded. No one really talked to Chernov. The poor man was not very popular within their unit, often being derided behind his back by the others. Poet. Puppy. Coward. But Dmitri did not share those views. If anything, he was as much a coward as him, crawling on his belly in Stalingrad, hiding behind walls as he took careless shots at the Germans from the upper floors, letting others go ahead when he was expected to lead the charge.

Yet, he was still called a hero.

Then again, heroes did not massacre prisoners-of-war. As far as he knew, heroes did not pillage and plunder and rape the women and children of those who had done the same to theirs. Did they?

"Am I really a hero?"

"Comrade?"

Dmitri asked again. "Do you think I am a hero, Yefrosin?"

Chernov mulled his response. "... Do I get to be honest?"

"Please."

Silence. Then hesitation. And then an apologetic voice. "... I do not understand you, sometimes, comrade. You are brave and you are headstrong. But when it comes to the enemy... Sometimes, you show mercy. Others..."

A sigh. "I see. I was told to kill them and I did. Now, looking back, I can say that they are the reason for my nightmares. Do you have them, too?"

A somber nod. "Yes, comrade."

"Then that makes me nothing more than a private in the Red Army. Just like you. Just like the rest of us. I mean, if you think about it, aren't we all heroes in this glorious war?"

Chernov shifted uneasily. "If Commissar Markhov were here..."

" _Ya znayu, ya znayu._ That is why we are having this conversation when most everyone else is asleep."

"They say you are a hero, Dmitri." The younger private tucked away his diary. "But you are right. You are no different than any of us. We are all 'heroes,' after all. _Miy vsyo tovarishchi._ "

Dmitri let out a mirthless chuckle as he blew out the flame on his oil lamp and lay down on the dirty old mattress to sleep. "Perhaps Comrade Stalin is in need of heroes."

Chernov shrugged. "Perhaps so."

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 26, 2020**

**LAST EDITED: September 27, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 27, 2020**

* * *

**Translations:**

**_Gut, gut._ = Good, good. [German]**

**_Wir sind Volkssturmmannen._ = We are the People's Stormtroopers. [German]**

**_Es tut mir leid_ _! Ich weisse nicht._ = I'm sorry (to hear that)! I didn't know. [German]**

**_Es geht, es geht._ = It's fine, it's fine. [German]**

**_Das tut mir leid, Volkssturmman_ Weiss. = I'm sorry (to hear about what happened), Private Weiss. [German]**

**_Dankesch_ _ö_ _n, Gruppenf_ _ü_ _hrer_. = Thank you, corporal. [German]**

**_Nichego, tovarishch._ = It's nothing, comrade. [Russian]**

**_Konechno._ = Of course. [Russian]**

**_Ya znayu, ya znayu._ = I know, I know. [Russian]**

**_Miy vsyo tovarishchi._ = We are all comrades. [Russian]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (September 27, 2020) - I've been playing Call Of Duty: World At War recently for nostalgia purposes. Pardon me for any historical inaccuracies.


	2. April 30 - May 3, 1945

_April 30, 1945_

When news reached their unit that the Red Army was only a few streets away from the Reichstag, Corporal Ebi immediately ordered that they move back with the rest of the Wehrmacht. No one questioned him; not the bleeding regulars retreating from the front, not even the wounded Gestapo officer they had rescued along the way—a chubby man in lederhosen who had been moving from house to house summarily hanging 'saboteurs' and 'collaborators.'

"Didn't you hear? They just flooded the metro," Private Zeki remarked as they took apart the machine gun mounted atop one of the barricades.

" _Die kommunisten?_ " inquired a dumbfounded Private Ederne.

Private Bree shook her head. " _Nein._ Word is the Wehrmacht lured the Red Army into the metro and tried to drown them there."

"Looks like it didn't work. There's a hundred thousand of them still out there and we're barely scraping enough bodies to push them back. So much for a 'genius' plan," sniped Private Amin.

"Hey, keep your voice down, _dummkopf_!"

" _Scheisse!_ Sorry! Pretend I didn't say that."

Weiss ignored the banter, instead focusing on hefting two heavy metal boxes of ammunition. She grit her teeth as she forced one foot in front of the other, tolerating the aching in her legs, running after her sister, her squad-mates, towards the fortified positions in front of the Reichstag itself. She nearly stumbled when the Flak cannons entrenched between the rubble boomed over their heads.

But she carried on through and was with her sister when they made it behind the frontlines, catching her breath while the bullets she carried were passed around by the ragged and exhausted Wehrmacht troops holding the line.

"Are you alright, _Volkssturman_ Weiss?" asked Corporal Ebi.

Weiss nodded.

"We should get inside. It's safer there."

"Wh-what about...?"

He offered her another one of his optimistic smiles. "We've done our part. Best to get inside while we still can."

The younger Schnee followed after the corporal into the Reichstag parliament building itself. It had been awhile since she last had been inside and there was not much difference to the interior as it was over ten years ago when some fools lit a fire in here that destroyed much of the place. Even then, the damage and the rubble suited the defenders just fine. Small redoubts of sandbags lined the floors while short wooden towers were erected to hold sharpshooters and machine-gun nests.

"This way," someone directed.

Weiss walked with Winter and Corporal Ebi through a narrow corridor that led down into the basement. It was here where some hundred other people were sequestered. Many were uniformed troops, the rest were civilians and the wounded. Somewhere in here, there were those who were already dead. It was just a matter of finding the body and properly disposing of it.

How could she tell? She could smell them.

"Weiss?"

Weiss looked up to see none other than her own brother Whitley making his way over to them.

Skinnier and a mite taller, with his Volkssturm armband nearly falling off his sleeve and his Karabiner slung over his shoulder, he closed the gap and hugged her. "It's good to see you're alive and well."

"You too."

"And Winter? Where is she?"

"I'm fine, too, thank you for asking," Winter replied.

Together, the Schnee siblings held each other, savoring the comfort and warmth. Then Winter detached and pulled them by their wrists towards her Volkssturm unit halfway across the cavern. With the amount of people in here, the atmosphere was nearly suffocating. It reeked, it was humid, and there was no shortage of despondence with how many were writhing in agony while others summarily received their Iron Crosses for some deed of valor against the Red Army.

Whitley joined his sisters as they gathered together with Corporal Ebi and his unit.

" _Heil, Volkssturmann_ Whitley," greeted the corporal. "Where is your unit?"

" _Sie sind alle tot, Herr Gruppenf_ _ü_ _hrer._ "

Weiss and Winter regarded their brother with genuine surprise. The baby of the family, a youthful boy at fourteen years of age, had seen as much as the uniformed servicemen resting in here. His gaunt face and skinny physique only added to the imagination of what he had experienced.

Corporal Ebi nodded somberly. "I see. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Whitley," Winter breathed. "What happened?"

Whitley bore neither a smile nor a frown but his eyes were as glassy as Weiss when she retreated into the halftrack to release her emotions. "The Red Army happened, dear sister."

Privates Bree and Amin shared a look of nervous sympathy while Privates Zeki and Ederne appeared resigned, almost hopeless. No doubt, they had their fare share of encounters with the Russians but none so violent and bloody as the Schnee siblings.

Weiss reached out to squeeze Whitley's hand. He remained stone-faced for another moment before wheezing tearfully. He was smiling as he was crying and he continued to do so even after Weiss took him in her arms and wept with him.

* * *

Dmitri was awestruck upon setting his eyes on the Reichstag parliament building for the first time in his life.

Never had he imagined, much less even considered the thought, that he would see such a place with his own eyes. Yet here he stood along with the rest of the Third Shock Army as they consolidated their positions in the heart of Berlin. Having just survived being drowned in the metropolitan underground by the desperate Nazi defenders, he was once again given little respite before being ordered back into the fray.

His spare time sacrificed for the glory of the Motherland, of course.

Chernov straggled passed him, the red banner of their battalion graciously wrapped around its pole and snuggled over his shoulder.

"Yefrosin," Dmitri called. "Are you alright?"

Private Yefrosin Chernov glanced at him—a face full of conflicted emotions—before nodding. He was not in the mood for talking. Understandable. After being yelled at and denigrated in front of the others by Sergeant Reznov, and having his diary nearly ripped into pieces, he could not be faulted for keeping to himself for the time being. Best to focus on fighting, it seemed. Better than thinking about how 'no one would ever read' his memoirs.

Their tanks were forming up on makeshift redoubts while their artillery pieces were being entrenched on the bridge behind them. Infantrymen like him were grouping with their squadrons, distributing ammunition and supplies as their senior officers plotted how to penetrate the German defenses protecting their prize.

"Dima, your share," Sergeant Reznov said, handing him a satchel of drum magazines for his Shpagin.

" _Spasibo, tovarishch serzhant._ "

"It is a beautiful building, is it not?"

Dmitri turned to his superior. Rarely did Viktor Reznov compliment the craftsmanship of their enemy. Then again, Berlin was a beautiful city. A beautiful, decadent, wretched city. "What do we do with it?"

"We seize it."

"But then what? We destroy it? We turn it into a museum?"

"That is yet to be determined, my friend. For now, our goal is to stamp out the black heart of this fascist Reich."

"I understand but... Viktor, I am curious as to what we will do with the building afterwards."

Reznov laughed. "You think several steps ahead, Dima. Perhaps when this war is over, you will make for a proper administrator."

Dmitri did not share his mentor's humor but chuckled nonetheless. "I do not think I am suited for administration."

"You do not, right now. But then again, you had thought you were not suited to be a fine marksman."

The private nodded, staring at the ground as visions of the past flashed in his mind. For some reason, the most prominent memory was neither the moment he assassinated General Heinrich Amsel in Stalingrad nor the many grizzly melee engagements at Seelow. Instead, he was taken aback by how vividly he remembered sparing that one girl—the porcelain girl with the sullied white hair and the rumpled Volkssturm armband.

Among the many people had killed, she stood out the most. For the first time in his career in the Red Army, he had encountered a combatant whom he felt overwhelmingly compelled to spare. He had to remind himself that she threw her rifle to the ground and ran away. What person would he have been if he still shot her after she did that?

Dmitri shook his head. "... I think we should regroup with the others."

" _Konechno_."

"Comrade sergeant!" bellowed Commissar Markhov atop an immobilized T-34. "Take the left flank and eradicate whatever scum remains in defense of each building!"

"Yes, comrade commissar. You heard him, comrades!" Sergeant Reznov echoed, running ahead into an alleyway as a pair of artillery pieces blasted away, covering their advance. "To the left!"

Private Petrenko breathed deep before his legs carried him along with the rest of his comrades. Already he could hear the sputtering of Schmeissers and the crackles of Karabiners. An MG began buzzing from an upstairs window. As he took cover behind some rubble, he noticed the bodies of uniformed German soldiers hanging from the few trees still standing, placards draped over their broken necks.

Sergeant Reznov screamed something about Nazi cowards. But Dmitri instead was drawn to the fact that, out of the Red Army soldiers engaged in the fight, Private Yefrosin Chernov was the most vigorous in emptying his Mosin at whoever Nazi scum dared to poke his head from behind cover.

* * *

Rumble, rumble. Flicker, flicker. Artillery thundered above ground, greatly muffled by layers of concrete.

Weiss, Winter, and Whitley stayed close together in their little culvert. They kept silent, in contrast to the many others in here who were reacting in some way to the shelling; cries of destitution, muffled curses, an order thrown around for someone to shut up about defeatist talk. On the other hand, nearly all of the fighting men in here—well, those who weren't too injured to fight—rushed upstairs to join the defense of the Reichstag. Doubtless, very few—if not all—of them would return.

"We're not going to be committed, are we?" whispered a very unnerved Private Bree.

Corporal Ebi shook his head. "As long as we're not too loud, they won't think we're worth throwing out there."

"These armbands," Private Amin remarked, clutching his own. "If they see us with these, they'll ask why we're not fighting."

"Look around you, Marrow. You're not the only _volkssturmman_ pretending to be invalid."

"We should do the same," Private Zeki remarked. "Fake illness or injury."

The corporal shook his head. "Eventually, the wounded will have to fight as well."

"These uniforms. They'll single us out," Private Ederne said.

"If they do, then what about the others here who look more fit to fight?" he retorted.

"We're not going to—?"

Winter was cut off by an exasperated Whitley.

"I've had enough," he sneered before turning to the other privates. "If I were you, _kameraden_ , I'd take off my uniform and use them as my blanket. Best to be incapacitated if only to buy a bit more time to live."

And after a hesitant moment, they did. Corporal Ebi, who had been more concerned about the lives of those under him than the lost cause of the Fatherland, slipped out of his military greatcoat and folded it neatly over his lap. It then became his pillow. The rest did not have to put in much effort in doing the same to their uniforms as the senior Wehrmacht and SS officers prowling around ignored them, instead checking to see if anyone needed medical treatment or was worthy of a commendation from whatever remnants of the Nazi leadership still remained.

Winter slipped out of her own jacket, effectively discarding the damning armband, and used it as a blanket. Whitley did the same with his. Weiss laid between them, trying to sleep despite the rattle of gunfire above ground that seemed to have gotten louder and louder as the minutes passed.

She did manage to drift to sleep.

Only to once again dream about that one Russian soldier mercilessly killing everyone in her unit...including her.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_May 1, 1945_

It was over.

The war, long since lost, was now winding down. With the surface of the Reichstag now crawling with Red Army troops, it was only a matter of time before they would find the many Germans—wounded Wehrmacht troops, unarmed auxiliaries, and defenseless Berliners—huddled in the basement.

The silence was palpable and suffocating.

Weiss didn't realize she was holding in her breathe until she opened her mouth to inhale. It had been deafeningly quiet for the past few hours. No more gunshots. No more artillery. Nothing but voices that spoke the Slavic languages of the Soviet republics.

Eventually, someone called down into the basement.

His voice rattled the few stubborn loyalists into drawing their pistols at the entrance. Being in the far back, concealed behind a mass of other holdouts, neither Weiss nor any of her companions could see what exactly was going on. But they dreaded the worst.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Shuffle.

An SS officer entered into the light with his hands up and a white kerchief hanging between his fingers. " _Es ist vorbei, kameraden! Der Schlacht ist verloren._ "

Three loud bursts echoed in the cavernous hall followed by something heavy tumbling to the floor.

Weiss and many others jumped and squealed in surprise before following the attention of the crowd. A handful of devoted Nazis had taken their own lives, dark crimson flowing out of the fresh new holes in their heads. She had seen enough to have gotten used to the dead but seeing the faces on their corpses...

...the resignation, the defeat, the absolute loss of hope.

Former business heiress and Berlin socialite Weiss Schnee hugged her siblings and cried into their shoulders. Not because the Third Reich had been defeated. But because she had had enough of this madness.

* * *

Hours later, they were marshaled out of the Reichstag by the victorious Soviet forces.

Red Army soldiers, some of whom were drunk with victory—and many others literally drunk and dancing and singing—crowded the streets. Weiss tried not to maintain any eye-contact with them for fear of attracting unwanted attention. It was common knowledge at this point that many among them were eager to exact revenge for the crimes committed by the Wehrmacht in Russia. It was just only a matter of time.

"Stay together," whispered citizen Clover Ebi, having discarded his association with the Volkssturm.

The others in their now defunct unit, all donning civilian attire, huddled together as they walked down the steps of the parliament building with the many refugees being accounted for by the Soviets.

Weiss waited in one of the many lines formed as they were each profiled.

Some were released into the custody of the local Berliners who were being given momentary authority to govern the remnants of the city while the Red Army troops scoured the ruins for holdouts. Others more simply were taken aside to be summarily shot. And then there were those, particularly women, who were being led off by separate groups of soldiers.

For what reason, Weiss preferred not to imagine.

Up ahead, she saw Clover giving his name to the officer manning a makeshift desk. After answering a few questions, he was ushered into the building that served as temporary housing for the refugees. Citizens Harriet Bree, Marrow Amin, Elm Ederne, and Vine Zeki followed suit in the same way after going through the process.

Then it was Winter's turn.

Some of the Red Army troops began snickering loudly. They could not have ignored the white hair that was natural to the Schnee family. Winter, keeping as bravely as she could, was eventually led somewhere else.

And Weiss began to panic inside.

Whitley was the next after Winter. He, too, was led away in the same direction.

Weiss then shuffled over. Biting her tongue and rubbing her hands together, she calmly and carefully answered the officer's questions. A moment later, a Red Army soldier took her by the arm and led her away. Past the throngs of defeated Germans, past scores of leering Soviet troops. Past a heap of bricks, over a bullet-ridden barricade, then around the corner where her siblings disappeared to.

Her imagination must have gotten the best of her because instead of the worst that she dreaded, she was instead ushered into the burnt and shelled of the old library where she often used to study in.

Surrounded by splintered bookshelves and the ashes of old books, she found herself in the company of other Berliners. And among them were Winter and Whitley. She hurried towards them, staying with them, and huddling down as they were being surveyed by their Soviet guards led by an intense-looking bearded man in a brown leather overcoat. His eyes met hers and Weiss felt her heart stop.

" _Tovarishch Serzhant_ Reznov!" called one of the soldiers hurrying over.

Weiss watched this Sergeant Reznov discuss something with his subordinate before a team of Red Army medics arrived to treat the wounded among them.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_May 2, 1945_

They were a most uncommon sight among the refugees evicted from the filthy caverns underneath the Reichstag.

Three apparent siblings—two girls and a boy—with natural white hair and a fair complexion that still shone from layers of dirt and grime. The nearby Red Army soldiers found it amusing, even treating them as exhibits at a zoo. Dmitri did not share the crude levity of his comrades; he still believed that these people—the civilians, at least—deserved some modicum of human decency afforded them.

They were, after all, non-combatants. Collateral.

Though the Hero of Stalingrad was sure that the younger girl once had a Volkssturm arm band on her sleeve not too long ago. He tried not to pay her too much attention, instead focusing on helping carry boxes of supplies intended to feed both the victorious Red Army as well as the disarmed Wehrmacht troops and the demoralized civilian population.

Because after the battle, after the announcement of Berlin's surrender and the celebratory debauchery that followed, the Red Army and their auxiliaries were left with the unenviable task of cleaning up the dead.

"Have you seen those three?" remarked one of his comrades. "White hair and they're not even as old as my mother."

"Eh, albinos?" guessed another. "Who knows? As long as they don't shoot at me, I'm fine with them begging in the streets."

"I heard they used to be rich."

"Not anymore. Now they will know what it is like to starve."

Dmitri tuned out the rest of their conversation. He began considering taking up some other duty after this, something that did not involve shooting someone. At least Sergeant Reznov respected his decision to stay out of any more fighting.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_May 3, 1945_

Weiss did not want to do this but the choice was either to starve in their bombed out hovel or endure more verbal abuse from the Soviets while she fell in line at the nearest soup kitchen to receive her daily ration. At least she was not going alone.

As a rule, not one member of their family was setting foot outside by their lonesome. When one needed to get supplies, everyone had to tag along. So Winter and Whitley both accompanied her and together they stepped out into the streets, under the watchful eyes of many indifferent Red Army soldiers.

The eatery for their district was around the corner and Weiss almost felt her stomach churn in yearning at the sight of the steam rising from the pots set on barrels filled with coal. As usual, there was the winding line of Berliners...shadowed by the Soviets 'monitoring' for 'stubborn spies.'

Weiss kept her head low as she fell in with her siblings. She picked up the smell of warm soup and nearly salivated at the thought of Russian cabbage stew. While not something she thought she would never have to live off of for a long time, it was not entirely bad. Rather, after enduring days of rationed meals occasionally topped with the scraps scavenged from the knapsacks of dead soldiers, Russian cabbage stew—'borscht,' they called it—seemed the best the world had to offer.

"Don't look at them," hissed Winter.

Weiss heard Whitley whisper an apology. In the corner of her eye, a handful of Red Army soldiers snickered behind their cigarettes.

" _N_ _ä_ _chster!_ "

At least the Russians strove to learn German. Or some of them. They did make an effort to restore essential services. Like water and electricity. And provide the basic necessities. Like food, clothing, and medicine. It was out of the question whether the Soviets were doing their best or they were only bothering because their commanders said so. Most people at this point chose to be grateful that they were still being cared for (somewhat) despite being deemed the 'enemy.'

Weiss remained in her thoughts, one foot dragging in front of the other, until she found herself standing in front of a table lined with bowls of steaming cabbage soup.

Her eyes traced some spillage on the gravel, then to the rubber boots, leading up to a ragged Red Army uniform, dotted with a Soviet war medal. She held out her hands and received a bowl...

...from the same Russian soldier who massacred her squadron four days ago.

* * *

Private Dmitri Petrenko was confused when the girl in front of him stopped moving. It was like he was suddenly serving food to a statue.

Then the bowl dropped onto the ground, spilling a whole serving on both the gravel and on her shoes. She squeaked and backed away, bumping into the person behind her—a shorter, skinnier boy who shared the same color of her hair. Now the eyes of dozens of other people were on them. Dmitri was annoyed by the attention and quickly waved them all off.

Besides, it was not his fault good food was wasted. Normally, he would have been right to reprimand the girl, being the generous Red Army soldier doing his best to serve his defeated nemesis. But Dmitri was not that belligerent. So, without much thought, he picked up a rag, rounded the table, stooped to a knee, and began wiping the soup off her shoes. Much to the astonishment of a lot of the people around them.

With that out of the way, might as well get her another bowl before someone would come over and mouth off at her for being a 'stupid, wasteful German.'

In the process, he got a closer look at her. And it hit him.

Now it was Dmitri who froze like a statue, staring back down at the glassy eyes and the puffy porcelain face. The white hair, the pale skin, the quivering lip. In his mind, he cursed his luck. In his heart, he felt an overwhelming shame.

Her voice snapped him out of his daze.

She was apologizing. Shakily. Nervously.

Private Petrenko gestured that there was nothing to worry about. He filled up another bowl, adding in an extra scoop from the pot, and handed it to her. This time, he left his post to his comrade so he could guide the girl to a vacant place to eat peacefully.

* * *

Weiss was terrified for her life when she blundered in front of both her fellow Berliners and the occupying Red Army troops surrounding them.

But what stunned her the most was the fact that the man who haunted her in her nightmares was doing the complete opposite of what her paranoid mind expected. She watched mouth agape as he bended down and cleaned the mess off her shoes before giving her another serving. Afterwards, he even walked her away from the line, making sure that she did not spill her cabbage soup this time.

It was still difficult to move though. Especially since this Russian had his hand on her back as he ushered her towards some wooden boxes pushed up against a wall of debris. She played along though, containing her anxiety as best she could.

He gestured at a pallet and she sat on it. Then he gestured at her bowl and she began taking slow sips. Then he walked away and Weiss was about to breathe a sigh of relief until he returned and...

...gave her a spoon.

She took it from his calloused hand. And this time, she got a better look at him.

Unshaven, mole on his cheek, dry eyes glistening with...guilt?

Weiss looked away as did he. Then she started taking small scoops and small sips, hearing him shuffle around. Then she heard him speak for the first time.

" _Prostitye_."

She knew very little of the Russian language. But the voice and the tone. And the body language that she caught when she glanced up at him trudging back to his post. Weiss was at a loss even as her siblings joined her, nudging her and asking her if she was okay. Instead, she shook her head and silently sipped at spoonfuls of her cabbage soup.

* * *

Dmitri continued serving food to the Berliners well after his shift.

Perhaps it was his innate altruism that kept him going. Or maybe, no matter how much a part of him denied it, it was the guilt that was beginning to pile on after three years of brutal war. He had lost count of how many he had killed and the many friends and comrades he had lost in turn. And the medals and commendations that were due him... They all felt so hollow. Almost meaningless.

He dug into his pockets to feel the thin strips of ribbon and the shiny bars of metal that were supposed to distinguish him among his comrades. He did not feel like putting any of them on. It made him quite uncomfortable. Such recognition singled him out as a hero among the Red Army...and a monster by everyone else in this ruined place.

Is that what that girl saw?

She did not see some Red Army soldier giving equal servings of borscht. Rather, she must have seen the monster that killed her friends. It must be. That was what he caught in her crystal blue eyes when he generously offered her another serving, topped with an extra scoop from the stew pot for good measure.

He kept his eye on her since then.

Her eating with her siblings—they were the siblings with the white-hair, he was sure.

Dmitri watched her from afar, even as she left with her brother and her sister.

Maybe his apology was sufficient. Maybe it was not. Maybe it was just meant to be like this. He sighed into his hands, shouldered his Shpagin, and headed back to the ruined apartment building that had served as a temporary barracks for his unit.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 27, 2020**

**LAST EDITED: October 12, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 12, 2020**

* * *

**Translations:**

**_Die kommunisten?_ = The communists? [German]**

**_Nein._ = No. [German]**

**_Dummkopf_ = Idiot [German]**

**_Scheisse!_ = German expletive.**

**_Heil_ = German greeting**

**_Sie sind alle tot, Herr Gruppenf_ _ü_ _hrer._ = They're all dead, sir. [German]**

**_Spasibo, tovarishch serzhant._ = Thank you, comrade sergeant. [Russian]**

**_Es ist vorbei, kameraden! Der Schlacht ist verloren._ = It's over, comrades! The battle is lost. [German]**

**_Zhopa_ = Ass/Rear end/Keister [Russian]**

**_N_ _ä_ _chster!_ = Next! [German]**

**_Prostitye._ = Sorry. [Russian]**


	3. May 8 and 9, 1945

_May 8, 1945_

Weiss twisted the knob on the radio. It was their only comfort—a luxury at this point—that they looked forward to at the end of the day; a treasure they bartered off their neighbors in the bombed-out apartment bloc they were assigned to live in by the Soviets. She glanced to her siblings. Neither Winter nor Whitley expected anything else; it was already a given.

The announcement was repeated once more. The radioman read out the declaration of what had transpired that day: Nazi Germany had formally surrendered to the Western Allies and the Soviet Union.

The war in Europe was over.

There was cheering in the streets but not as excessively joyous as the debauchery that possessed the Red Army troops days ago when General Helmuth Wiedling and his aides rode around the streets in protected vehicles preaching the news of the Führer's death and Berlin's capitulation. Even though she had shed all allegiances to the Nazi regime, it still stung hearing the Soviet anthem being played over the siren horns in the streets, the music further augmented by the voices of hundreds of patriotic Bolshevik troops singing and dancing and shooting their guns in the air.

Winter reached over and turned off the radio.

Silence.

The three remaining members of the once wealthy, glamorous, and influential Schnee family sat in stony silence around the only table in their small communal home in central Berlin. Save for the clothes on their backs, the rations they accumulated in the ice box, and the various bits of junk they salvaged sitting atop the cracked furniture here, they had nothing else left to their name.

Father was gone, most likely dead. Mother was missing, also probably dead. Their relatives and friends—or more realistically platonic acquaintances—were either dead, in hiding, imprisoned, or relocated somewhere else. Clover and the others seemed to have vanished and it sent shivers down their spines to so much as think of what happened to them. Everyone else understandably did what they had to do in the interests of self-preservation and cut their losses while they could still breathe.

Eventually, Whitley cleared his throat. "What now?"

"We move forward," Winter replied. "We make do with what we have."

"We could find work," Weiss raised.

The other two regarded her uncertainly before nodding unevenly. There were not that many options available. But work was still work. And, of course, they could not hide in their apartment forever. As much as the fighting had ceased, the return of order tasted bittersweet—new leaders, new systems, new regulations, new society based on the statehood concepts of Marx and Engels as interpreted by Lenin.

But one thing was for certain: it was dangerous for people like them to so much as cross the street. It was no secret what countless vengeful Soviet soldiers would often do to countless German citizens. What had transpired in Russia was repaid in full here in Germany.

"Very well. We go out together," Winter reiterated.

And the two nodded back.

The Schnee family—or what was left of it—was going to start over. And maybe make up for the sins of their father along the way; goodness knows they were not as popular as they were rich even back then.

* * *

Dmitri did not laugh as much as his comrades when the fifteenth joke of the day was thrown around for the third time in the last hour. Then again, neither was Reznov who remained aloof albeit mildly interested in the banter. Both men did not want to spoil the fun of their squadron with their melancholy.

After all, they had just buried Chernov yesterday.

Sharing ridiculous anecdotes and jeering at whatever stupidity they could come up with was their only solace from the doldrums. And in light of the disappointing news that they were not going to be sent home on the date they were told, there was no other alternative other than drink. It was clear that most everyone was eager to depart the battlefield now that the war was over.

At least, over here in Europe.

There had been talk among the rank-and-file that Stalin was planning to strike at the Japanese soon and for that, he needed the experienced veterans hardened by Germany's guns. Dmitri tried his best to ignore the gossip and continuously hoped that the next train he boarded would be straight back home to Stalingrad Oblast. Then again, the last few months had been somewhat unpredictable with confusing orders and sometimes officers suddenly changing their minds at the last minute.

"Hey, Dima, you look like you could use a drink!" barked one of his comrades, an old friend from his training days named Vorona Baranov. Why someone would name their son after a crow was beyond him. "A toast to the next time Moscow runs out of vodka!"

Dmitri gave him a small smile before accepting the tin cup that had his portion of the bottle that the squad had procured. He did not feel like drinking though and instead let his poison slosh around.

Someone told another joke. The others laughed raucously, downing their cups. Then all of a sudden...silence.

The Hero of Stalingrad noticed the sudden change in atmosphere and the first thing he noticed when he looked up was that the men—including Reznov—were looking down the street. Habit had him nearly slinging the Shpagin off his back. Sound reasoning convinced him to follow their gaze...

...to the three white-haired siblings that many Berliners, and eventually the occupying Red Army, recognized as the Schnees.

And Winter, Weiss, and Whitley Schnee, after a day of working as paid helpers for the local district administrator, stared back at the eight Soviet soldiers idling on the stoop of their broken-down apartment.

* * *

Weiss stood rooted to the asphalt, her hands hidden in her greatcoat, clenching their meager pay. No doubt, Whitley was doing the same, hiding his money in his pockets. Only Winter remained the most unintimidated, her hands hovering tightly by her sides as she met the contemptuous looks of the Red Army unit blocking the only way into their home.

Weiss steeled herself as best she could but her resolve faltered the moment she met the gaze of that soldier...

… Private Dmitri Petrenko, she learned his name was. A supposed 'hero' who survived the bloodshed at Stalingrad, butchered her countrymen at Seelow, and slaughtered his fair share of Berlin's defenders not too long ago.

"Weiss," Whitley whispered. "Stay close."

Winter stepped forward, meeting their leers with a stone-faced facade. She was stopped in her tracks when one of the privates refused to move his leg, blocking the steps.

"Excuse me, comrade soldier," the eldest Schnee politely requested in Russian. "May you please remove your leg so we may pass?"

The other soldiers began to laugh, either because they were amused by a German woman ordering them to get out of the way or impressed by the fact that she could speak their language fluently. After a while, the unshaven private stood up but he did not step aside. Instead, he approached her and patted her on the cheek as he spoke to her with a crooked grin. From where Weiss was standing, she could smell the alcohol from him.

The rest of the exchange was largely indiscernible to the other two siblings but it was clear that this unit was not keen on letting them go for the time being.

That was until Private Petrenko raised his voice.

Towards his comrades.

The mirth died down as the rest of the squadron eyed the supposed 'Hero of Stalingrad' with their brows raised. Private Petrenko spoke again and this time he was answered by another face that Weiss recognized: Sergeant Viktor Reznov, a terrifying man with venom in his voice and hands that did the work of the devil in the name of Lenin.

Weiss could barely keep up with the dialogue but was immediately drawn into the fray when the gruff, bearded man reached over and cupped her cheek, pulling her into their circle as the other soldiers stepped between her and her siblings.

This man, Sergeant Reznov... He scared her. He scared her so much that she could not help whimpering as her tears began to flow down her cheeks.

She watched helplessly as the two Red Army soldiers argued. She saw Private Petrenko falter for a bare moment. Before he argued back, more fiercely. It was a brief back-and-forth that ended when Sergeant Reznov looked into her eyes with an almost faltering fury—was that guilt?—before letting her go and walking off.

The other soldiers followed suit, with the unshaven one throwing a barb at Winter as he took a swig from his bottle of vodka. Among them, Weiss caught Private Petrenko looking over his shoulder.

Towards her.

Apologetic.

Pitiful.

Remorseful.

Weiss would only understand later that evening, after she finished crying, that Private Petrenko was trying to convince his comrades to spare the Schnee siblings their wrath. That as 'heroes,' they 'had the responsibility to question their actions.'

At least, that was what Winter heard. Then again, Weiss had heard countless times how the Volkssturm were 'Germany's unsung heroes.' If that were the case, then she was right in questioning what they had done—what _she_ had done—in the name of the Fatherland.

And while she liked to believe that Private Dmitri Petrenko was human enough to question his deeds, he had a long way to go for former Volkssturm private Weiss Schnee to forgive him for what he had done on the day they first met.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

It was raining in Okinawa when the group of American marines huddled around the radio in their raincoats. The tarp they had set up only protected the equipment, leaving them to get drenched in their cloaks and uniforms while they listened to news that was supposed to boost morale.

Well, as far as Private Anthony Miller was concerned, it did boost morale. Just not here.

After all, the victory won in the west had yet to be won in the east.

No one made a sound as news of Germany's formal surrender echoed throughout their meager camp followed by cheers of audiences around the world. All they ever heard was the pitter patter of the rain on the mud and the occasional artillery thundering over the hills or gunfire volleys echoing through the trees.

Private Miller turned to the only two people in their outfit he knew the most. Private Lewis Polonsky was staring at a wooden munitions crate with haunted fascination while Sergeant Joseph Roebuck absently chewed on tobacco leaves. Rainwater trickled down their temples from their helmets, dripping down to their raincoats, seeping into the fabric of their shirts, and eventually running off their hands.

Eventually, Polonsky broke the silence. "So...we won, huh."

Heads turned to the New Yorker.

"Yeah," grunted Roebuck. "We won over there."

"But not here."

The sergeant spat out his cud. "Not yet, Polonsky. Not yet."

Miller nodded in agreement, his eyes scanning over the knee-high grass that was sharp enough to cut skin. He followed where the meadow ended and where the dense Okinawan jungle began. Perhaps it was the water, or the numbing cold, or the exhaustion...but he glimpsed two lanky shapes moving behind the tree line.

Or he was just tired. So very tired.

If only the Japanese would just take the hint and give up already like the Germans did. But, after all they had seen and experienced, that was wishful thinking. The sardonic private just hoped that taking this godforsaken rock would be the last time he or his brothers would put their lives on the line against an enemy that was devoted to fighting to the death...and taking their foes with them.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_May 9, 1945_

Imperial Japanese Army Private Lie Ren looked up from his notebook in his dark corner of the tunnel to see his companion Private Sun Wukong sauntering over with an unopened bottle of sake. No doubt, such a luxury was generously provided by their superiors as a form of maintaining their spirits during these dark times. Or rather, according to Sun, the liquor was a reward for successfully scouting the American positions not too far from here. After all, what else is there to drink to other than their impending 'glorious' deaths or the fact that the Americans were going to bury them alive with their bombs.

"Can't say it's the best but it's better than the last one we had," Sun remarked as he plopped down onto the ground and laid out the pair of cups on the crate they used as a table.

Ren only grunted, taking his share and quickly downing his portion, before turning back to his notebook. If there was anything to take away his ruminating on the Americans, it was writing them down. There was something...haunting about what he and Sun saw yesterday when they scouted the frontline. The looks on their pale faces, the hollow stares into nothingness, the way they carried themselves, letting the rain bathe them as they huddled around their radios.

What were they listening to?

Sun, being the intrusive one that he was, leaned over. "Another entry?"

"Don't you have your own?" the older private said, moving his notes away.

Shrug. "Yeah but mine is boring. Yours is more interesting, anyway."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, come on. At least let me figure out how you think, right?"

"You already know how I think."

"Come on, man," Sun prodded. "I've known you for years and it seems like I hardly know what your favorite food is."

Ren shrugged. "I am satisfied with our rations."

His comrade opened his mouth to argue before clamming up and nodding. "Better than eating scraps, I guess."

The next moment passed in silence with Sun helping himself to a few more cups of sake.

Ren paused in his writing to glance at his companion. To this day, he wondered why exactly his fellow Chinese conscript decided to adopt the name of the legendary hero from the fabled tales of the Journeys To The West. How the cheeky young man from Peking managed to get away with the name Sun Wukong in his draft papers eluded Lie Ren. But that was a mystery that was worth solving for another day.

If they were able to live another day.

After all, as 'devoted warriors' of the Emperor, it was expected of them to give their lives in their noble duty to expel the barbarians from their home.

Home.

Ren mentally snorted.

As far as he or Sun would remember, Japan was _not_ their home. It was the home of the people who executed Ren's parents in Shanghai. It was the home of the people who dragged him out of the orphanage—who took him away from _her_ —to serve in the ranks of the Imperial Japanese Army. No matter what the Japanese or their proxies would say, Shanghai was Ren's home and Sun would say the same of his hovel outside Peking.

Breathe in, breathe out. _She_ would not like it if he was mad. _She_ would have wanted him to be happy because _she_ believed in him.

Ren relaxed his hands and tried not to remember _her_ face, _her_ bubbly personality, _her_ warm hands locked around his waist, _her_ heartwarming yet strained voice begging him not to leave, pleading with the recruiters to spare him even as he was forced to board the truck bound for the training camp...

"Hey," echoed Private Wukong. "Hey, man..."

Private Lie blinked back into reality. "What?"

"I was wondering... Do you really think we can defeat the Americans?"

Ren nearly pounced on his drunken friend to cover his mouth. "Don't speak so loud about that."

Snort. "It's just us here."

"Sound carries through these caves."

"Not like anyone's listening."

"Don't be so reckless."

"I'm only being drunk."

Ren shook his head, having given up on focusing back on his notebook. Well, the light on the their shared lamp was flickering anyway and he was not going to fill up the canister with their last drops of oil. Better to shift the discussion away from such defeatist talk...mainly because their superiors would not take too kindly to it.

"What time is it?" asked Private Lie.

"I don't know," slurred Private Wukong. "Night?"

"Was it dark outside?"

"It was cloudy, I think...then it started raining. It was muddy back there."

The older conscript stretched his legs as he lay down on his beddings, the edges damp from the groundwater seeping through the soil. "Go to sleep then."

Sun laughed an intoxicated laugh. Before slipping into soft chuckles. Then whimpers. And a choked sob. Ren already had his eyes closed, waiting for sleep. Then again, it was hard to sleep with American bombardment occasionally thundering through the underground, interspersed with the drunken mourning of the only real friend he had left in their Imperial Japanese Army unit.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 27, 2020**

**LAST EDITED: November 30, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: November 30, 2020**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (November 30, 2020) - Yes, I've dropped references to and borrowed scenes from the movies Der Untergang (2004) and A Woman In Berlin (2009). And I'm glad folks appreciate the liberties I took with expanding the characterisation of the cast.
> 
> Also, if you've noticed from the summary/synopsis, there is still the story in the east waiting to be told.


End file.
